in this world of pretending and heroes
by Ashes Of The Innocent
Summary: Three things Teddy Lupin wants and never gets, and the one thing he never expected, and gets. – Dean/Teddy, written for the "Crossgen" challenge.


**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**AN: **Written for the "Crossgen" challenge. Dean/Teddy, which is just the most epic thing I've ever heard of. Hope you like it.

* * *

><p><strong>i. to be a <strong>_**hero**_

Teddy likes odd things.

_(he's not like other kids)_

He likes to sit outside in the dead of the night on the front porch and just lie back on a chair and shut his eyes and pretend he's this great hero who saves everyone from a terrible fate. That he's the one to bring back peace and order into this messed up world and that no one can stop him.

Then he likes to go back up to his room, silently, stealthily

(_because heroes know how to sneak around)_

and play it all out in his room. It's sort of like a dance for him – he stands, pretends to hold a sword and swings it around and around and kicks sometimes and punches and then stands up straight, breathing heavily, staring down into the face of the wrongdoer

_(endless stretch of beige of his rug)_

he just defeated.

He chooses a sword, because wands are small and boring and swords can be big and small and shiny.

He pretends to be this great person; pretends he's fifty inches taller, pretends he's got muscles rippling in every part of his body, pretends he wears cool clothes instead of the baggy jeans and ridiculous yellow and green shirts his grandmother always makes him wear; he likes to _pretend_. Likes to imagine everyone's down in the battlefield, broken down and bleeding, and he's broken too, a bit, and bleeding too, a lot, but he's still standing and still fighting and in the end he kills the bad guy, and everyone starts staring at him like he's a _hero_.

Likes to imagine that some made up friend of his just died in the battle and he's won but he's defeated too, and everyone gathers around him in St. Mungo's to give him their condolences, but he doesn't listen to them because he's too weak and too tired.

/

It's Harry's birthday and Teddy stares through the room in surprise because he's never seen so many people.

There's so many crowded around the levitating foods and drinks, around a dozen in the centre of the room, and maybe over a hundred or so in pairs or groups, chattering happily on the sidelines, nursing glasses or plates from the huge, white frosted cake floating in the air away from the rest of the goodies.

"You okay, Teddy?" a deep voice asks, and Teddy looks up and pretends to smile.

Harry smiles too and touches his shoulder and Teddy looks away, shrinking away from the contact.

(true heroes don't like human contact)

"Of course, Uncle Harry," Teddy says, nodding politely, _always polite._

"Good to hear then."

And then Harry's gone and Teddy stands back alone in the crowd, his insides coiling and curling because he's scared really. There're too many people.

Way too many.

So many that he figures that at least one of them can do something to him, can hurt him, so he schools his features into half hidden pain and goes up to his grandmother and tells her he wants a bit of air.

Smirks a bit when she asks if he's okay, genuinely concerned, and he nods back and waves his hand and tells her it's nothing.

He walks out in the cool, fresh air, shivers a bit even though it's the end of July only, and stands. Everything's dark. He likes that.

(more chances of danger)

Someone comes out of the shadows.

It's a tall man.

He's dark.

Teddy likes that too.

(more chances he's dangerous)

The man's holding a cigarette in his left hand and once he appears in Teddy's range of vision, he takes one more smoke and crushes it beneath the rim of his shoe on the cement ground beneath them. Stares at Teddy some, and then clears his throat.

"You're Teddy Lupin, aren't you?"

Teddy looks at him properly. Freaks out a bit, because this man _is _dark. Everything about him is; his eyes, his skin, his lips. Everything.

The man continues to regard him, his mouth quirking up in something like a smile.

Teddy nods. Doesn't say anything.

"I'm Dean." The man extends his hand. "Or, rather Professor Thomas for you. You're going to Hogwarts this autumn, aren't you?"

Teddy narrows his eyes.

(thinks that maybe it's good this man knows so much because there's more chance he can hurt him)

He says nothing.

"Well, I'm your Divination teacher."

Dean Thomas smiles again. Teddy doesn't return it. Hopes he looks like he's suffering in the darkest pits of hell there are.

"See you at school, Teddy. And happy birthday to your godfather."

Teddy watches him walk away. Thinks of all the scandal news on the Muggle television Aunt Ginny doesn't like (and does) watching, about little nine year old girls getting raped by older, crazy men.

Maybe Dean's a crazy old man.

Maybe he'll rape Teddy.

(and against all odds, Teddy will get better because he's going to be a _hero _and heroes always overcome all odds)

And that's what Teddy is.

A suffering, strong, powerful hero.

He'll save the world.

_Just like Uncle Harry._

XXX

**ii. a **_**family**_

Because, well, every hero either has dead parents or parents who left them and they all want a family.

He's not any different.

His parents are dead.

Died in the war. Killed.

Harry is like that too. His parents died too.

He's a hero. Everyone loves him. It must be nice.

Teddy's got a pseudo-family, really. He loves Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny and their kids – James, with his crazy sense of humour and the mischievous grins and laughs; Albus, the shy, quiet one with the missing teeth and crooked smile; and of course Lily, who's so small Teddy likes to hold her close and breathe in her distinctive baby scent. She's comforting. She's a tiny thing in this big, cruel world, and he likes that with just a tightening of his hold on her, he can hurt her, and still, she doesn't care.

The Potters are nice people.

He doesn't like the Weasleys.

They're either too loud, or overbearing, or nosy, and Ron's drunk most of the time Teddy sees him at dinner parties or celebrations and Hermione is just _annoying_. The rest of them tick him off more than is needed because they're just so damn _happy_.

He doesn't belong with the Weasleys. He does belong with the Potters, who bring him in with wide, open arms

_(likes to pretend he's suffering and doesn't like people hugging him so he mostly forces smiles and discomfort, when he just wants to run in their house, screaming and laughing happily)_

His grandmother is his grandmother – she's the only one with a real family link towards him, and she's only _one _so she doesn't count, not in his mind.

He used to feel guilty for thinking that.

He loves her – but if he had to, he'd choose Harry over her anytime.

He saved the world, lost his parents, lost friends in the war, and yet he's still a happy, happy man.

He's perfect.

/

Teddy stays at Hogwarts during Christmas; he's pretty much alone, none of the Weasley kids old enough to be at school yet, and so he opts for staying here because he doesn't want to go back home to his grandmother and everyone else.

(needs to seem aloof to them)

He hasn't got many friends, but there's one boy he likes in Slytherin – Andrew Lars – and he spends his time with him when all the common rooms are scarily empty and dull, and Lars looks around with vague curiosity in the Hufflepuff common room.

"It's nice," he says mildly. "When you don't think yellow is a terrible colour."

Teddy smiles at that and shrugs, curling further into his body on the couch, staring thoughtlessly into the flickering flames.

Lars looks at him then, with needle-sharp eyes, and says, "Your parents are dead."

It's a statement, not a question.

Teddy sucks in a sharp breath – tries to shake off the feeling of unease he gets at this, because yeah, he pretends and plays and imagines, but it sort of stings to hear the statement spoken so blatantly.

"I know."

"How does it feel?"

Teddy shifts, ignores the heat pooling around his neck, and murmurs, "I hate it."

He does hate it, but likes the possibilities and chances that can come out of this – likes that he can be pitied (and then pretend he hates their pity) for something he does think about, but only occasionally.

Uncle Harry didn't let it control his life. He's not going to either.

(not that)

Lars smirks a bit, all Slytherin, and puts his hand on his knee, squeezing a bit too tightly, but Teddy's not interested in that. He's too busy watching the way Lars's veins protrude through his skin, green and prominent, and wondering how it would be like to see that hand with a knife in it, fingers wrapped loosely around it; how it would feel to have a dagger in his throat and then stops wondering altogether because Lars has this evil glint in his eyes like he wants to kill Teddy.

Teddy wants to run. Lars is two years older than him, and Slytherin – he has no idea how he could have forgotten that

(don't trust anyone – heroes never do)

But against all better judgement, there's the promise that Lars will hurt him in many ways, and the headmaster will find out some way or the other, and Teddy will be the centre of attention in this. He'll be affected, he'll be hurt, and Lars will be put to shame.

Lars doesn't hurt him, in the end, because he pulls back, arms crossed against his chest, and Teddy realises that his heart is beating a little too fast. He breathes in steadily, tries to at least, bites his lip, and looks at Lars in a whole new light.

He's handsome, with a tanned, thin face, and flickering eyes, potentially dangerous, mean.

"Have you got any other family?" Lars asks, voice smooth, cool.

"I live with my grandmother."

"Who's she?"

"Andromeda Black."

"A Black? Aren't you supposed to be in Slytherin, then?"

Teddy shakes his head, not used to being interrogated. "No. None of my parents were – so I'm here, like my mum."

"Shame. You'd do well in Slytherin."

Teddy's confused. No one's ever said that, and he's not sure whether or not he should be honoured or offended. Slytherin, Slytherin, Slytherin – he doesn't hate the house, but he prefers the others to it, and to be told that he could be conniving and slippery, it brings an equal amount of pride and annoyance.

(_no. _heroes are never in Slytherin. Slytherin is bad)

"But I guess not," Lars says. "Your father used to be that werewolf freakshow, right?"

"Remus Lupin," Teddy bites back, suddenly hot with anger. "And he's not a freakshow."

"Whatever. He was a werewolf."

"It wasn't his choice."

Lars smirks a little. "I suppose you would think so. I mean, look at your hair. It changes colours every two minutes."

Teddy touches his head absently, noticing that now it's a flaming red that resembles the Weasleys', so he tries to calm down and forget about that little jibe. After all, Lars is perhaps the only friend he's made so far.

"You're weird," Lars says thoughtfully, looking at him again like he's reading him. "Your family is weird."

He knows that already.

The Weasleys are not his family, but the Potters and his grandmother are.

They're not enough, he realises. But in order to get more, he needs to marry a nice, pretty girl and have many babies.

But he doesn't want a nice, pretty girl, because Lars looks pretty enough then.

Maybe he can be his family.

_Or not_.

XXX

**iii. a secret **_**hiding **_**place **

He's seen them all – all the movies on the Muggle television that show little boy geniuses having big, huge places with all sorts of inventions that fascinate him.

Laboratories, they're called. Teddy wants one too.

Once he's back home for the summer, he finds a rock in the multitude in the garden and keeps it in his pockets at all times, pretending that it's a button that leads him to this big place with chemical tubes and crazy things that let him fly by himself and give him the world.

They're more tempting than using magic. He likes to think of everything from a Muggle perspective; that there's no such thing as magic and he can rely only on the intelligence Muggles actually have, creating and inventing things like televisions and computers and many other things wizards haven't realised yet.

The need for a place like that is so strong one night, he goes outside into back garden and gathers all the leaves he can find and puts them together, and sits down on the damp ground, leaning back against a tree. A branch obscures his view of the house, so he smiles and digs his fingers into the dirt. This is what he wants.

His grandmother finds him the next day, pants covered in dirt, but he doesn't care.

It's his caricature of a hiding place.

It's perfect.

/

He's gasping for breath, ribs aching, world spinning around him, his hands reaching out to clutch at the ground, to stop it from slipping away. Andrew Lars and Goyle hover above him, the latter guffawing in loud laughter while Lars merely watches him curiously.

Teddy moans, the pain slicing through his skin like a blade, and uses his palms to try and get up, which is pretty hard considering his hands are trembling like mad. He hears nothing but blood rushing through his veins, a pathetic whimper of _help_, and then sees nothing but Lars's harsh, cold, cold eyes.

"Little shit," he sneers. "Too bad you're not a werewolf like your pathetic excuse of a father, eh? Then you could kill me."

Teddy looks at them both. Goyle has a dumb look on his face, as usual, but even then he can see the hidden amount of sadistic pleasure; Lars's is just plain evil, and idly, Teddy thinks that he's found his opponent after all.

He's not his family or boyfriend or future spouse. He's the villain in the book called Teddy's Life.

Teddy tries not to smile at the thought.

"Leave – leave me alone," he says, keeping his voice strong and everything he wants it to be – but then it falters when he murmurs, "Please," because the look on Lars's face is too scary.

Lars leans forward, breathes, "You're a little fag, who's gonna end up dead in hell like Mummy and Daddy," and then delivers a blow to his stomach that leaves Teddy bent over on his knees for several minutes.

Eventually, after more insults, Lars and Goyle leave. Teddy watches them, adrenaline dulling out every other feeling aside from triumph. He's got his enemies. He's got his victimised story.

He drags his legs through the corridors, not caring if he's caught or seen (half of his mind hoping), and once the wound they inflicted on his ribs stops throbbing in pain, he prods it with the tips of his fingers, frantically, desperately

(the sting there helps keep the sting of tears from his eyes)

Eventually, someone finds him, just as he's halfway to the Room of Requirement, the one place he's allowed to feel even remotely safe.

(which sounds ridiculous in retrospect, because the only two people that pick on him are Lars and Goyle)

He's just about to reach the wall, when footsteps resound behind him and he's standing frozen, wondering if it's them again and whether they're back to inflict more damage on him. He breathes in, and then turns around slowly, trying not to let it shock him too much when he sees Dean Thomas staring at him.

The man's still ridiculously tall and dark as before, so he when he steps forward Teddy takes two back, afraid.

"What's the matter, Teddy?" Thomas asks thickly. He frowns and studies him. Maybe he sees his broken lip, 'cause his eyes kind of widen a bit. "Are you okay?"

Teddy nods his head quickly. Thomas looms over him, hand on his shoulder, the unnecessary weight squashing Teddy's courage until it's nothing but a tiny jittering ball in his stomach, making him sick, pounding back and forth.

"Did something happen to you, son?"

_Backandforth backandforth backandforth_

Thomas frowns and tilts his chin up with his hand gently, eyes dark with concern.

Always dark.

_Backandforth backandforth backandforth_

_and now it's his heart too_

_back...forth_

"Come on," Thomas says quietly, hand still on his shoulder, guiding him through the corridors. "Let's get you sorted out."

They walk in silence, Teddy's heart and stomach still a pounding mess, and he fights hard not to turn and shove Thomas away, and for the first time, he realises that this reluctance for contact has nothing to do with pain or pretend pain but rather that his skin is (_too_) warm and soothing against Teddy's.

In the past three years, he's always felt awkward and uncomfortable around Thomas, and now it's just stretched to the extent that he's trembling by the time they arrive in the man's office, half-lit and warm and smelling distinctly like Thomas.

"Sit down," Thomas says, voice low, sitting him down on the chair in front of his desk.

He kneels in front of Teddy, wand pointed at his broken lip; and his hands, voice are gentle, and Teddy lets his eyes slide shut, lets his breathing even out and turn into something so soft that by the time Thomas is finished healing all his wounds, he wonders if he's alive anymore.

Thomas smiles at him kindly and stands up, palm warm against Teddy's neck. Teddy looks up at him, at his plump lips, and remembers their first encounter, and wonders whether he still smokes

(if he'd taste it)

"Let's talk," Dean says smoothly, and slides into the chair in front of Teddy, eyes on him at all times. "How do you like school?"

Teddy licks his lips, pretends that he just had Dean's on them, and shakes his head. "It's school. Boring. Okay."

"Ah," Dean says and smiles again. It should annoy Teddy, but it fits his face well, makes him better to look at. "And your friends? How are they?"

Teddy thinks back to Victoire, the only Weasley he likes, and remembers the other two friends he has in Hufflepuff. That's three – but he supposes Lars used to count before he went all bully on him, so he tells Thomas, "I have four."

"Do you?"

Teddy nods. "Yes. They're nice."

"Who did that to you?" His voice is now deep with pity, compassion, whichever. "Those wounds, Teddy?"

Thomas only calls him by his first name.

So Teddy calls him Dean too.

"No one, sir."

"You did them yourself?"

Teddy smiles vaguely, bites his lower lip, and feels his heart go _backandforth _again, harder than before just at the darkening of Dean's (already dark) eyes. Maybe it's because he's licking his lips all too often now, maybe it's because Dean's just a closeted paedophile, but there's something like hunger in his expression.

"Maybe."

"Teddy."

"I don't know, sir."

There's a definite rush through Teddy's veins now, worse than the adrenaline earlier, and he figures it's the Gryffindor gene of the family going through him (the _freakshow's_) when he leans forwards, smiling suggestively at Dean.

"Lean back, Teddy," Dean says, clearing his throat, looking uncomfortable. His eyes are wider, darker, hotter. "Now."

Teddy wants to say something – tell him he's half hard now, tell him he's a paedophile, but a hot one, and that he needs it, needs the sex, because sex is one thing he likes to think about.

Likes to pretend about.

He doesn't like the thought of something in him, or to be in someone else, but another hand touching him, or him touching someone else – then, yeah, it's something he craves and needs, and damn these emotions he's not supposed to be having; but Dean's there, looking lustful and guilty and _handsome_. He can have him (maybe).

Too bad he loses his chance when Dean knocks him out with a spell.

(and that's when he realises _darkness _is this special, secret place)

XXX

**iv. and the one thing he gets is **_**Dean**_

It's shocking really, that he's there and Dean's there, and the man's lips are on his neck, moulding half intelligible, pain-filled words, and something about how _tremendously seducing and messed up Teddy is_ and yet his hands are moving, moving, moving all over, touching him, and Teddy can only open his mouth in a heavy, silent sigh, and _feel _it. It's perfect, and wrong, and that's what makes it a whole lot better – that's what makes Teddy harder by the second, the whole touch and go feel to it.

Dean pulls back, breathing heavily, eyes wide, and there's the deep aching hurt of what it's doing to him and what he's doing to Teddy, and there's the lust, dark and hot, expanding in the shape of his dilated pupils. Bloody hell, he wants it and doesn't want it, and Teddy's nearly getting off just looking at his internal conflict.

"We shouldn't be doing this," Dean mumbles, over and over again, his hands moving to his shirt, pulling it over his head, while Teddy touches the bulge in his crotch.

"We are," Teddy says evenly, holding his gaze steadily, heart rate way above steady. "We are, and that's that."

Dean glares at him, a rare thing for him to do, and Teddy just smiles coyly at him, pulling him in, back to his neck, closing his eyes again. They don't kiss – and that's only because Dean insists that it'll _mean _something then.

Teddy doesn't want for it to mean anything; three years ago, that night, when Professor Thomas found him scared and bleeding, he'd thought he'd marry him and they'd live happily ever after. Now, three years later, Teddy relishes in the dark taboo of their sexual encounters, and lets himself get lost in the moments of pleasure, taking satisfaction in the pain he causes Dean.

"No," Dean says firmly, hands stopping, the springs creaking as he gets off the bed. His hair is tousled, his gaze vacant and needy, and jaw clenched tightly, the muscles around his head cording in that way Teddy likes to fawn over during class when he gets particularly annoyed. "Not anymore, Teddy."

Teddy licks his lips, watches as Dean sucks in a pained breath, and smirks slightly. "All right."

Dean's eyes narrow, suspcious. "What?"

"All right," Teddy repeats, but his hands are reaching towards Dean again, and when the man frowns at him, he just murmurs, "One more time, Mr. Thomas." His hand slides to the back of his neck, pulling him in close, and honour and nobility be damned, Dean leans back in. Teddy forces his face towards him and presses his lips to his, and Merlin, it's amazing and great and all so new, so when he leans back, Teddy's a bit breathless.

(_tasting cigarettes)_

"It's Christmas," Teddy tells him, trying to be naughty, and annoying, so he can spur Dean further on so maybe the man will be a bit more violent with him. "It's Christmas, and we're both horny, and this is a _tremendous_ gift for me, Professor Thomas."

Dean stares, and then gives in, muttering something about being _tremendously_

(it didn't take long for Teddy to realise that's the man's favourite word – _tremendous work, Teddy; you're tremendous, my boy; tre-tremendooouus_)

sneaky and annoying, and Teddy grins, running his hand through his hair, pressing up against him, kissing him again.

He's not a hero and the only family he has are the Potters and his grandmother – who's on her death bed anyway, even now as Dean looks him over uncertainly and ties the red stocking around his neck at Teddy's encouraging nods – and the only secret place of his are his sheets at home, but he has Dean, who's kind and gentle and Gryffindor, but who he somehow forces to be violent and darkin every sense of the word, and who holds him tighter than ever, murmuring _tremendous _against his skin in that breathless, pained _iwantit iwantit _sort of way that Teddy loves and cherishes.

He doesn't have any of those things – but he has Dean, and that's enough for him.


End file.
